


Writers Block

by Pens_and_Portraits



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Aliases, Best Friends, Brimstone - Freeform, F/M, FBI Agent, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Murder, Pendergast - Freeform, Romantic Gestures, Spoilers, Writer's Block, Writers, aloysius - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pens_and_Portraits/pseuds/Pens_and_Portraits
Summary: Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta has made little progress as a writer, he returns to New York with his head hung in shame. But when a strange homicide case turns up, Vincent encounters a Hawaiian shirt wearing, Agent named Pendergast.Trekking through the underlying relationship between the two, Vincent recovers a newly found interest in the case as well as the people who surround it.AKA: I can't write summaries. Forgive me.Taking place during Brimstone, and Dance of Death.





	1. Hawaiian Shirts and Oakley Sunglasses

Campbell Dirk, one of the more lesser known murder mystery writers of the modern age, sat back in his leather-bound office chair with his head thrown back. He audibly groaned as he pressed his hands to his face, trying to pacify a fraction of his headache. He had been sitting in his quarters for over 5 hours going over the stacks of papers scattered about his desk. Lately, he had found it more difficult to find inspiration to write, running into major plot holes and dead ends.

He reluctantly sat forward, rocking the chair in turn, as he picked up a black marker and struck out another line of dialogue. He sighed and placed the marker back down, settling into a slumped position over his desk, propping his head in his right hand. Nothing inspired him as of late, not the city of New York, not the people, not even his own job. That may be because this was simply a hobby. A simple side objective in life to fulfill his ruining marriage, and the void of entertainment in his life.

Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta, wrote novels under the pseudonym Campbell Dirk about crimes he’s experienced in his life. From the basics of the police academy; to the street thumping traffic guard; and to the lieutenant of homicide today, he wrote it all. Maybe, they weren’t all entirely true in their nature. Stretched out to be more appealing to the general public, you know inspire the masses. I mean surely Vincent would remember chasing down a serial killer down the fifth avenue at 10:34 at night. Right?

Vincent suppressed a smile at the idea and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the sides of his head, wondering where all his creativity had gone. Daring chasing, and extravagant locations, that was what he wrote about, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The Italian New Yorker snapped back into reality when he realized someone was calling his name. It was a scrawny looking man with disheveled hair spiked this way and that. Vincent began to roll his shoulders, stretching, hoping that this meeting would be quick.

“What is it?” he asked in an irritated tone. The frightened looking officer spoke quickly yet softly. Perhaps fearing that someone would hear them.

“I-It’s the museum…”

“Out with it already” He was growing into a more foul mood than before.

“There’s been a murder. Well… Two m-murders… two boys found in the sub-basement.”

Vincent went rigid, and he looked to the terrified man’s face. The man shook like a tiny hairless dog who stood before a great beast. This wasn’t a joke.

“Show me.”

A couple of years had passed since the Museum of Natural History Murders and Vincent D’Agosta had found his motivation to write once more. In the years since he’s written several new books and has climbed higher in popularity. He was now one of the more well-known authors of the genre he liked to call: police procedurals, where others simply called them mystery novels. They weren’t wrong in that sense, but his books were more grounded in reality than most of his competitors. He wrote about the effect of losing someone on the force, what true procedure looks like at a crime scene and the consequences of what happens when someone doesn’t follow the rules. This seemed to ground himself and his characters into reality while still allowing for flexible plot twists and turns.

He found sparks, and glimmers of inspiration around the events that surrounded the museum, just as his friend Smithback had done, but was never seemingly able to quench this thirst for more. He found himself very much interested in a certain FBI agent, but he concluded that they wouldn’t ever really meet again, so there was no real hope in trying to keep in contact.

In the end, after everything had died down and friends went their separate ways, Vincent found that it was time for him to leave as well. His story had come to a close. He had done his part in saving lives and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with his wife and son in the country. His wife and son, however, had not had the same feelings as he did. They fought him about moving out of the country for many months and Vincent now found himself guilty of what he had done. He had imposed and kept pushing and pushing his family for his own selfish and wasn’t all that surprised when he found himself back in New York, a bachelor once more. It had been a struggle to keep up with the new job, starting straight back at square one.

For anyone, they would have gone mad at the thought of having to claw themselves back up, but not Vincent. At least, not alone. Thanks to a one Thomas Wolfe.

He had come across a new author that caught his eye at the bookstore. The unknown author went under the name Thomas Wolfe, and he was found under the mystery section. _Sounds pompous as fuck_ He originally thought.

_It’s almost too much..._ Vincent knew well enough to recognize a false name when presented, and after he scrutinized the name for a short period, he found himself smiling for the first time after a dreary spell. He typically didn’t read competitors novels, not wanting to pick up on bad habits, but he found himself intrigued by the name and the paragraph on the back of the book.  He read it out loud but to himself.

“There are some things in life that one is not capable of controlling. You may decide to breathe in, only to withhold the satisfying exhale, but when an applied force comes, there is always a path that you were meant to walk on. Just as you breathe out, you were meant to.”

_What the hell does that mean?_ He thought at the time, turning the light blue hardcover book in his hands. His eyes lingered on the name once more before deciding on buying it. _Couldn’t hurt to read it, right?_

He would later find out that the book had been misplaced. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise to him after reading the odd quotation on the hind side. He supposed that it should have been located in poetry and philosophy.

After many months of clambering up the ladder once more, Vincent had found himself in Southampton Police Department as a Sergeant, on a case who they believed was done by Lucifer himself. He couldn’t help but try and laugh at the pure hysteria that was caused among the rest of his men. A sergeant was also another name for a glorified babysitter, for he watched over the force like an underpaid 35-year-old with a bunch of little shit kids. Which wasn’t entirely untrue.

At the current moment in time, his boss was riding his ass about the crime scene being contaminated by reporters or press who wanted to snap pictures of the grizzly scene. Or at least the outside of it. He felt something akin to sympathy for one of them, who was brave (or stupid enough) to cross the police tape and take a shot right in front of him. The cameraman reminded him of the journalist: Smithback, whom he hadn’t heard from in a long, long time. After he had removed the man as firmly, yet as kindly, as he could behind the barricades, he removed his hat and wiped his brow.

_Jesus Christ, it’s hotter than hell out here_ He thought, and he looked towards the sun settling in the middle of the sky. The whole procedure had taken all morning and now he was stuck with these blockheads screwing everything far and in between. As he finished hanging up more crime scene tape against the hedges, he let out a hearty sigh, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He wished to god he was home, curled up in his apartment with a new copy of the Thomas Wolfe book.

He found himself wondering what the book would focus on this time around. He wasn’t completely sold at first but after reading what he knows as “The Gravel Beneath” in all of its entirety, he was hooked.

The man, Wolfe, almost seemed to invoke a feeling of both certainty and serenity in him, and it calmed his nerves when he was at his limits. He always brought Vincent back down to earth with his demanding tone and overall conviction and confidence. Truth be told, he admired the man. He drew more and more inspiration and motivation from Wolfe for his new book. The unanimous man who he stumbled across in a library, had started a whole new novel for Vincent to write. He became an avid devotee.

He was surprised to hear that a man like Wolfe open his inbox for questions about him from followers and asked him one or two questions every so often. He was even more astonished that Wolfe would even want to hear from his fans. Thomas Wolfe seemed to be unattainable, unfazed. His mind, from what D’Agosta read, was beautiful and enigmatic.

But Wolfe was full of revelations, and he had been there in some of D’Agosta’s darkest of times.

As the heat and sweat poured off him, he had decided to take the benefit of a detour around the house passed the fountains and the pond. A strange sight awaited him as he rounded the corner and noticed a pedestrian by the duck pond. Strange. D’Agosta hadn’t even seen him come through. The man in the gaudy looking shirt and sunglasses seemed to have just appeared out of thin air. He hefted his belt and begrudgingly headed over, all the while thinking about how to start the next chapter of his new book. After calling out to the man, he half expected him to run. When he didn’t, a part of him wished that he would have just scampered off.

“What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know this is a crime scene?”

The man in the tacky Hawaiian shirt spoke in a rather blasé tone, something Vincent didn’t take kindly to. He was the type of guy who wanted respect, and in turn, would do the same if the person deserved it.

    “Yes, Officer, and I do apologize-” The man began.

_Cut the bullshit_ Thought Vincent, trying to remove him from the premises before Lieutenant Braskie came howling over. After debating with the man for a while, about feeding the ducks and how they must be hungry, Vincent’s patience was dwindling.

    “Let’s see some ID.”

“Of course, of course.” The man said, and after searching his pockets, he looked up at Vincent sheepishly. The man gave a half-assed explanation involving his wallet being in his jacket, conveniently, away from here. The man’s New York accent grated on Vincent’s nerves and he couldn’t help but really take a look at the man. His clothes appeared to be rushed and put together, and something told him- no, he could definitely smell the perfume of the cheap department store that the man bought these clothes in. It was clearly a disguise.

    The man in disguised made an attempt to duck out of the conversation, but Vincent stopped him with a word from his lips. He asked the man where he was from and where he was currently residing. The man gave his address. Then Vincent asked him where his permanent address was.

    “That would be the Dakota, Central Park West.” The address had rung a bell in Vincent’s head. _Coincidence?_

“Name?”

“Look, Sergeant, honestly, if it’s a problem, I’ll just go on back-”

“Your first name, SIR?”, he said more sharply.

The man gave another half-assed reason as to why he wouldn’t give out his name. Vincent gave him a sharp glare, one that he uses to really shut people up. That including some fellow annoying officers. The man closed his mouth immediately. Vincent was about ready to simply cuff him and ask questions later.

“Let’s try again. First name?”

“Aloysius.”

“Spell it.”

The man spelled it.

“Last?” He raised an eyebrow, daring the man to give him a smart remark. The man did not.

“Pendergast.”

Vincent began to write this down as well when he halted. _Son of a bitch_. Vincent D’Agosta looked up from his notepad, his gaze being met by cool silvery eyes. He could have sworn he saw a flicker of mischief in the man’s eyes.

“ _Pendergast?_ ” Vincent found himself very much at a loss for words. The last he had seen of the man, was when he was a proud New York City Police lieutenant.

“In the very flesh, my dear Vincent.” The grating New York accent was replaced with a honeyed Southern accent, one that made the heat of the sun, slightly more bearable.

Vincent could have sworn that he saw the corner of the man’s mouth quirk up, and he restrained himself from trying to rub his own eyes. The heat was really getting to him.

“What are you doing here?” Finally finding a string of words that formed a cohesive sentence.

“The same might be asked of you.”

Vincent found himself coloring, remembering the reality that came crashing back down to him. Here he was, in front of one the smartest men he’s ever gotten to meet, as a fucking Sergeant in Shithampton. Here he was, after five whole years of no contact, here was Pendergast. The man who he thought he would only know or meet him once in his life. Well, apparently, he was wrong, because here was the blonde, standing in front of him with big Oakley sunglasses now hanging in his horrid shirt front pocket, with oversized pants just barely hanging on. Perhaps they weren’t too far off in the way they were living.

The two men chatted for a short while before Vincent had to ask.

    “Where on earth did you get that god-awful outfit?”

Pendergast looked down at his frame before slightly raising his eyebrows at Vincent.

    “I was in Amagansett when the news arrived that Jeremy Grove had met an untimely end. How could I resist? I apologize for the outfit, but I was hard-pressed to get here as soon as possible.”

_Or maybe he was doing just fine._ Vincent couldn’t help but feel a little resentful. With the way he was living, he was able to pay rent and bills with the money he earned from his book sales, but it wasn’t nearly enough to get him out of the apartment. But he had found out that Pendergast wasn’t assigned to the case yet and would be by tomorrow. From a distance, he heard his name being growled out. If Vincent was alive tomorrow, he’d be more than happy to work with the agent again on this case.

Vincent could compare the growl of his name to the mating call of a boar, except that would be insulting to the poor unfortunate boar. He turned to find Braskie getting ready to tear him apart. He made an attempt to explain the situation to the lieutenant, but the round man wouldn’t hear it. He asked for Pendergast’s ID, and Vincent couldn’t help but smirk.

_Boy, aren’t you in for a treat Braskie_ He thought smugly. But when Pendergast spoke, he revealed that he was indeed telling the truth. Vincent felt an urge to bury his head in his hands at the remark. Vincent watched in dismay as the retreating figure of Braskie led Pendergast of the premises, but his mood shifted when he noticed Pendergast. The blonde man appeared to be enjoying himself as he strolled behind the lieutenant, hands in his pockets as his light blonde head looked skyward. He wouldn’t doubt it if the man’s eyes were closed, amused by the way this whole scene went down.

_Crafty bastard_ He couldn’t help but smile.


	2. Badges

Aloysius X. L. Pendergast started his mornings rather early. He woke at approximately five AM but didn’t get out of bed until five-fifteen exactly. At five-eighteen, he opened the French doors to let fresh air in and had his breakfast brought to the room. He wasn’t in the mood to eat downstairs. Besides him, there was one other occupant of the house, a small staff of one middle-aged woman. Either way, he was alone. During the times between five twenty-eight, and six o’clock, he meditated, ate, and was dressed in a rather haphazard getup. He wouldn’t be assigned to the case until later, and he made the misjudgment to have his suit prepped for him the night before. He would have to make a note of his error, prevent it later.

The house he had rented for the time being had a family that was living in it previously, owned by a man who owed Pendergast a favor, and despite the short notice, the family was soon cleared out. All that remained was an empty, fully furnished house. The house itself was not to Pendergast’s liking, having too much natural lighting come in during the day, and spitting out light that was much like a lighthouse at night. A large window during daylight can feel warm and comforting, but at night, the eyes of the world seemed to be watching your every move.

Pendergast tidied his room, closing all doors and windows and left a housekeeper a note to strip his sheets.

As Pendergast walked downstairs to the main entrance, he found himself rather uneased. He turned around, half expecting someone to be at the top of the stairs, but when there was nothing there, he slowly turned back towards the front door and set off to the crime scene. This one sounded promising. He slid on the Oakley sunglasses and stepped outside.

At around eleven fifteen, Pendergast reappeared on the scene. As he approached the police tape he was stopped by a fairly good-looking footman. Now usually, he would step around these barricades, but since he already had gone and pestered the Lieutenant, he thought it best to just go through the front entrance. He flashed his credentials, savoring both astonished and embarrassed look of the younger man. The man politely held up the tape as Pendergast slipped under and continued moving forward, much to the chagrin of the reporters and rubberneckers who tried to follow. He adjusted his tie and set off to find the Lieutenant.

He had found the man hounding at his friend Vincent, overhearing a snippet of the conversation as Braskie caught sight of him.

“Sergeant, arrest that man and read him his rights.”

“Wait, Lieutenant- “He heard Vincent try to explain, but a man like Braskie is hasty and expects results, whether they be true or not.

Braskie turned to Pendergast, noting the irritation in the man’s voice he asked, “I hope you brought your wallet this time.”

He couldn’t help but smile inwardly. The truth of the matter was that he savored the surprise and flustered looks on people like Braskie when he showed his ID. To see them knocked down a peg, and to remind them of an authority that was higher than they were. He made it clear to everyone since the Mbwun killings, that he truly hated bureaucratic humans who deemed themselves more important than others.

 _A bad habit indeed._ He mused in his head.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” He reached into his pocket.

“No, I don’t want to see it, for Chrissakes. Save it for the booking sergeant down at the station.” Braskie stepped forward.

Pendergast let the wallet fall open, keeping his eyes on the man’s face.

“What the-?”

“Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He drawled, almost savouring the moment.

He watched the man’s eyes, a reflection of gold as he processed the badge. The man’s face fell, then flustered, and then grew stern. Pendergast, watched the man swallow, intimidated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. 
> 
> I noticed that the dialogue between Pendergast and Vincent shows some very odd subtext.


	3. Caught Staring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to merge two chapters.

“What we believe, Lieutenant, shapes what we see”, came the collected southern voice.

Pendergast was currently having a word with a witness, Agnes Torres, of whom such, found the body. She was the current cleaner of the house, employed by J. Grove, and she was scheduled to come in that morning. After answering some quick yes or no questions, Pendergast let her go. He seemed to be in the mindscape of seeing the actual scene of the crime, and Vincent couldn’t blame him. He was horrified to hear that some of the SOC guys actually got sick from seeing the gruesome display, and it made Vincent both uneasy and excited. He guessed that Pendergast would be feeling the same.

Vincent, Braskie, and Pendergast made their way into the house, standing in the middle of the foyer while Pendergast did most of the talking. Vincent would like to have a word in at some point, but he wasn’t really up for fighting Braskie at the time being. Braskie overviewed them with details already known to him. Unknown ingress and egress, the alarm system didn’t go off and nothing of value seemed to be taken. It wasn’t until Pendergast began to look around that D’Agosta began paying attention again. He was staring and a rather bizarre painting, cocking his head slightly at the sight. Vincent couldn’t help but wonder what might be going on in his head right now.

His attention was brought back to the conversation as the men discussed those of interest. There was a party of five that attended last night, and Pendergast had asked for a list of names. D’Agosta was getting ready to move before Braskie opened his trap when Pendergast stayed the two of them with a raise of his hand. Not authoritative looking in the slightest, but he still found himself frozen where he stood.

“...Lieutenant if you could spare another officer.”

Almost immediately, Braskie looked suspiciously at Vincent.

_I don’t control him_ Is what he wanted to say, but instead, he opted for a slight shoulder raise. After another officer was sent to get the list, both Pendergast and Vincent were informed about the priest that was called in that night, an old friend of Grove. Grove was left on answering machine, talking hysterically and needing the father to come right away. Preliminaries from the guests point out that Grove was almost frightened the night of his death, which made D’Agosta think.

“With a Bible, cross, and holy water, by any chance?” Pendergast asked.

“I see you’ve already heard about the call,” answered Braskie.

Vincent had to resist an urge to hang his head. As a Catholic-raised boy himself, it should be common knowledge that a priest would carry any of those things on his person no matter the circumstances.  _Then again, this was Braskie we’re talking about…_

He picked at the Lieutenant inside his head, wondering how he managed to even get that position.

“Could anyone have stayed behind, or perhaps slipped back inside after the guests had left?”

“That’s a theory we’re working on. Mr. Grove had, ah, perverse sexual tastes.”

Vincent noticed the FBI Agent’s eyebrows raise. “How so?”

“He like men and women.”

Vincent couldn’t help but slightly colored at this remark, he tried to gauge Pendergast’s reaction.

“And the perverse sexual tastes?”

“Just what I said. Men and women.”

Vincent noticed that Pendergast’s brows had drawn down slightly, in disappointment, his silvery eyes fixed on Braskie.

“You mean he was bisexual? As I understand it, thirty percent of all men have such tendencies.”

“Not in Southampton they don’t.”

The heavy atmosphere was too much for Vincent and he stifled a laugh with a burst of coughing. Pendergast turned to him and cocked his head to the side, again like he was examining a painting. Vincent’s body immediately stopped. He felt scrutiny under the man’s eyes and cleared his throat.

“Sorry, I, uh, had an itch in my throat” He cleared his throat again. “Terrible allergies”.

Pendergast gave Vincent a rather disapproving and upset look. “It is summer, Sergeant, and we are standing right on the beach with 5 miles per hour wind gusts. Whatever could you be allergic to?”

Vincent swallowed hard, the way Pendergast was looking at him made him feel like a suspect in an interrogation room. Vincent cast his eyes downwards, not able to look at the man, choosing to stare at his feet.

_Did I offend him?_

_Should I apologize? But what for? I haven’t the faintest friggin idea what I did._

He saw the black polished oxford’s turn and walk off in another direction.

 

  
Aloysius Pendergast kept his eyes on the man before him.

The Italian was a fair bit smaller than he and was almost looming over the man. Something about that comment that Braskie said, it checked him into the mindset of other people out there. They weren’t as open about such a topic of discussion as many other cities were. But the way Vincent had reacted was something that really touched a nerve. This nerve was only invoked more and more as the sergeant tried to cover it up. Had he truly felt this way about the subject, or was he perhaps just uncomfortable?

Taking this new idea into consideration, he analyzed Vincent’s body language. Currently, he adjusted his collar, seemingly unbeknownst to his actions. But his throat clearing appeared to be unintentional as well. It did not register as an annoyed or aggravated tone, but rather an embarrassed tone. However, in that respects, Pendergast couldn’t help but quip at him about his so-called “allergies”. He realized his mistake when Vincent looked to the floor. Perhaps, he was a bit too vicious on the bite back. Guilt was not a common feeling for Pendergast, yet he still felt a twinge hit him at the sight.

He took a moment to re-center himself, keeping his emotions in check.

After which he turned away, and walked off, hoping D’Agosta would follow.

Vincent D’Agosta watched the figure move away, and as it did so, he followed. A bit further behind, but still following. After all, this was still his friend, and they didn’t know too much about each other’s personal life. He was in no position to judge.

He looked ahead of them, watching Pendergast examine the rooms on the first floor. No book was unturned, and no speck of soil was safe.

The black-clad figure floated around the room, going from section to section, and back to the first section. He watched as the man pulled out a test tube and tweezer, seemingly out of nowhere. What else is he hiding in that suit? Vincent colored at the thought. Ok, not like that. He scolded himself for even letting the idea cross his mind. This was a crime scene, and they were working. Vincent caught the attention of Braskie staring at the agent. He gave him a look of disgust as he waved them off and asked to meet them in the next room when they were ready.

Vincent felt embarrassed. He was just caught by his boss, staring at his best friend.

You’re staring again Vinnie! He broke his trance, vision focusing in on Pendergast’s pale hands. They were thin, and nimble looking, with blue veins running on the back, disappearing under the black jacket. As the agent swept the room, test tube and tweezers in each hand, Vincent noticed small calluses located on the man’s right ring finger, and another located on the bottom half of his palm on his left hand.

Where’d he get that?

Vincent was now wondering where those small light scars on his fingertips came from, and where else they might be.

Pendergast’s hands even seemed to have a quality of elegance all their own. They gingerly plucked and prodded, extended and retracted, as if there was some hidden rhythm that only Pendergast could sense.

Pendergast glanced over at the sergeant, wondering what the man might be thinking about. The officer looked more pleasant and calmer than he was ten minutes ago. In fact, he almost looked intrigued.

What are you staring at my friend? He thought, watching out of the corner of his eye as Braskie left and move into the next room. Perhaps, he should finish up here.

Are you telling me to finish up?

Pendergast did as such, keeping a watchful eye on his friend. However, his misfocus on the task at hand nearly cost him dearly, as he almost dropped a hair fiber into a glass of water.

Now is not the time for distractions.

D’Agosta stirred finally, as he heard Pendergast call his name from a distance. He adjusted himself and focused in on the man.

“Are you feeling alright?” Pendergast asked, lightly placing a hand on D’Agosta’s shoulder. “Perhaps the heat has gotten to you.”

Vincent shook his head, immediately gave an excuse.

“No, I was just thinking who the motive would have to kill Grove. Ya’know thinking ahead?”

What a sorry ass excuse that was. You might as well have told him the truth, would have saved you some bullshit.

The agent gave a quick once over of him before settling with the answer.

 

After looking around the first floor, the three men decided to head upstairs to take a look at the body. Oddly enough, the body wasn’t found in the victim’s bedroom, and instead was found in the attic, laying on their back with a cross symbol burned into their chest.

This has got to be some sort of joke Thought D’Agosta, as he again looked at the body, cooked from the inside out with a cloven hoof print charred into the wood beside it. He realized that what he was thinking, was also being said out loud.

Pendergast turned to him, “My dear Vincent, do you really think it’s a joke?”

“ You don’t?” he gave the agent a questioning look.

“No.”

D’Agosta found Braskie staring at him. The “my dear Vincent” hadn’t gone down well at all. Vincent watched Pendergast now get on all fours and search the ground once more, taking out test tube and tweezers once more. His picked up a brown particle from between the floorboards and sniffed it, before holding it out to Braskie. Braskie recoiled slightly as if the particle was some explosive of sorts.

“Good Old Testament brimstone” came the southern voice.


	4. Angels of Purgatory

Vincent rocked slightly in the wooden booth, trying to get comfortable. The Chanticleer was a small restaurant, slathered in the color of yellow including flowers, drapes, and tablecloths. The agent across from him sat in silence, drinking in the atmosphere. Pendergast offered to pay for lunch but, Vincent’s stomach wasn’t really in the mood after spending time with the broiled Jeremy Grove.

The red-haired waitress bustled up to the table, greeting Pendergast in French, to which the man replied thusly. Vincent was a little off put when the man replied in the same language. When it was his turn to order Vincent licked his lips, and just ordered an iced tea, smiling a kind smile at the woman before she hurried off.

He turned back towards Pendergast. He wasn’t quite over the shock of seeing him again. Especially, like this. Vincent felt ashamed in comparison to the man sitting across from him. He hadn’t seemed to age a day.

Vincent distracted himself by asking how Pendergast found this place and what he was even doing in South Hampton. Pendergast explained that he was location scouting for a friend and that he would soon meet her.

_ Her? Oh. Is he married? _ He thought quickly, but he hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on his digit.

“Enough about me, I’d like to hear your story. The last I knew you were in British Columbia, writing novels. I have to say, I found  _ Angels of Purgatory _ to be readable.”

“Readable?”

“I’m not one to judge on the subject of police procedurals.” He waved his hand.

Vincent felt both flattered and slightly irked. He didn’t take criticism too well.

“My stories near been told. Retired. Became a writer but failed to make a good enough living out of it. And now here I am.” He gestured to himself with a wave. “Chasing petty crime on a salary that couldn’t even pay for a decent apartment.” He had let that last part slip out.

He took a gulp of his iced tea before looking back at Pendergast and continuing. “I’ve made a couple of decent books and gotten some cash flow in but that’s pretty much been it.”

“You’ve sold quite a fair few thousand copies. That’s more than most authors could do.”

“I’m flattered you think so highly of me.” he snarked.

“Have you stopped?” Pendergast took a sip of what appeared to be tea.

“No. I’m, uh, actually working on the newest one right now. But I don’t think it’s going to do too good.”

Pendergast gave him a curious look.

“It’s too… cliché. everything, from the characters to the story. It’s got nothing going for it right now and I’m about to just throw in the towel.” He pulled a face he hoped would move the subject along.

Pendergast listened intently, hands folded and resting on the table in front of him.

“And how is working with Lieutenant Braskie?”

D’Agosta snorted. “He’s an asshole.”

“He seemed competent enough.”

“A competent asshole, then.”

He found Pendergast’s cool gaze on him, and he fidgeted. He’d forgotten about those eyes. They made you feel like you had just been stripped of your secrets. Vincent found his pulse rise, and he tried to swallow. Pendergast was just staring at him, making direct eye-contact, blinking slowly. He held his breath, feeling as though he was being hunted by a lion.

“There’s a part of your story that you left out. Back when we last worked together, you had a wife and son. Vincent Junior, I believe.”

D’Agosta released the air in his lungs, nodding. “Still got a son, he’s back in Canada, living with my wife. Well, not for very much longer.” He stated plainly.

“We just got on each other’s nerves, and it just wasn’t fair to either of us.”

Vincent held Pendergast’s gaze a moment longer, watching as something crossed the agent’s face. He blinked, and it was gone.

“What about you?” He asked almost aggressively. “What have you been up to? New York been keeping you busy?”

“Actually, I’ve recently returned from the Midwest. Kansas, to be precise, where I was handling a case- a small case, but not without its, ah, interesting features.”

“Tell me about it.” Vincent smiled lightly, he missed these conversations with Pendergast.

“Now, my dear Vincent, you know very well I can’t disclose any information to anyone outside credibility.”

“What, I’m not credible?” He smirked at the blonde. “At least give me something. You can’t just tease me about these kinds of things.”

“Oh?” The blonde spoke lightly, a pale manicured eyebrow raised at him.

“I will tell you that the laceration on my left palm was an injury I acquired while climbing through a cave system.” Pendergast brushed his sleeve up, showing the mark.

Then Vincent found those damn eyes on him again. His face grew warm, and he felt something in his gut stir.

“Vincent? Are you sure your feeling alright?” Pendergast asked, cutting into his eggs. “You seem under the weather as of late.”

“So, you’re official?” He inquired quickly so as to move the conversation along.

“My freelancing days are over. The FBI is a different place. Yes, I am official.” His voice soundly more melodious in Vincent’s ears now.

Pendergast leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. “I need your help, Vincent.”

D’Agosta blinked. Was he kidding?

“We made a great team once.”

“But I’m... “He hesitated. “You don’t need my help.” He said it more angrily than he meant.

“Not as much as you need my help, perhaps.”

“What do you mean? I don’t need anybody’s help. I’m doing fine.”

“Forgive the liberty, but you are not doing fine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re working far below your capacity, both intellectually and financially. Not only is this a waste of your talents, but it’s all too clear in your attitude. You deserve better Vincent.” He drawled out. “Lieutenant Braskie appears to be decent, but you do not belong under his supervision. Once he’s chief, your relationship will only grow worse.”

Vincent couldn’t help but see that his piercing grey eyes gleamed of mischief once more.

“You think that asshole is intelligent and decent? If you spent a day- A DAY, working for him, you’d change your tune.” He stated pointedly.

“I believe it is you, Vincent, who needs to change your tune. There are far worse policemen than Lieutenant Braskie, and we’ve worked with them.”

“So, you’re going to save me, is that it? Like some damsel in distress.” Vincent could feel an anger in him rise, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

“No, Vincent.” Pendergast shook his head. “It is the case that will save you. From yourself.” He stated pointedly.

Vincent sat there, his mouth agape before standing up.

“I don’t have to take this shit from you or from anyone.” He pulled out a crumpled five and stalked out.

He was right. Everything he said. Was right.

Ten minutes later, Vincent returned, still feeling miffed at the man. Pendergast hadn’t even moved from his seat. He was delicately finishing off the rest of his lunch when Vincent sat down. Pendergast placed his silverware down and proceeded onwards with the case details.


	5. A Drive in the Rolls

As Pendergast slid into the backseat of the Rolls Royce with D’Agosta at his side, he reached into his suit jacket and pulled out the names of the four suspects. He gave it a quick once over. They were currently on the way to the talk to the priest, but the drive was around two hours and a half long. He went to offer the papers to D’Agosta when he noticed the man looking out the window. He withdrew his hand and kept quiet, looking out his own window. He had tried to reason with the officer about the case, but he simply didn’t want to see it Pendergast’s way. He was right, and in a way, he could try and ride the case solo. However, the thought made him inwardly disappointed. D’Agosta was his companion, and he had hoped that he would have been as delighted as he with the promise of such a unique homicide.

Then again, not many people in this world shared his fascination of the morbidly peculiar.

The agent kept more or less to himself during the car ride, but he couldn’t help but sneak glances at the officer. With Vincent’s head turned away, he was able to take in more of him then he could face on. He had tried to in the restaurant but this only resulted in an uncomfortable situation. He noticed the lines on the man’s face had appeared deeper and more numerous. His stubble peeking through with a small missed patch of hair just below his jaw. Pendergast had an itch to both run a thumb across it and shave it off. The years had been difficult on his friend and the dark circles under his eyes seemed to suggest this even further.

“Vincent,” he started calmly, “there is still some time before we reach the monastery.”

Vincent turned. “I’m sorry?”

“I was merely proposing that you should rest.”

“I don’t-” But Pendergast silenced him with a raise of his hand.

“It was merely a suggestion. Nothing more.”

Vincent turned away from him again, looking out onto the passing landscape. He heard an audible huff come from his friend.

Pendergast did not dare a passing glance at him for a while, putting himself in a trance-like state, focusing. When he pulled out the trance he chanced a look and what greeted him was something he never thought he’d ever see.

There, sitting not two feet away from him, was the sergeant peacefully sleeping. Pendergast couldn’t turn away from the sight. The officer’s usually tense frame was relaxed, as his head lay cradled on the back of the seat, head slightly turned towards the window. His tanned, calloused hands lay on his leg and on the seat between them. The blonde watched as Vincent’s broad chest rose and fell, lips slightly parted as his dark lashes jumped. The jumping, he noted, indicated rapid eye movement. In other words, the man was dreaming. He drank it all in, knowing that even the most masterful artists of the Renaissance would feel envious at the picturesque scene before him.

Pendergast found himself curious as to what the man could be dreaming about. Just as he posed the question, he heard a sigh escape the Italian. The blonde turned his head away, fearing that he would awaken to find his friend staring. When nothing came about it, he turned back. It had become intoxicating to see Vincent like this.

He cast his eyes from Vincent’s face, down to his shoulder, to his arms, and stopping at his hand on the seat. Pendergast drew in a breathe and stretched out his hand. He lightly let a single fingertip graze a knuckle, keeping eyes fixed on the man’s face. Should he wake, he knew he could just retract his hand and pretend nothing had happened.

Pendergast looked fixedly at the great contrast of skin tones, now becoming more daring and letting himself trace a vein on Vincent’s hand. He followed it up the backside of his hand, to the cuff of the man’s uniform.

He heard a shudder.

It took a couple seconds for the agent to realize that it came from him.  
Tentatively, he placed his fingertips back onto the center of D’Agosta’s hand. With great care, he fanned out his digits, coming to rest his entire hand gently on top of Vincent’s.

“Pendergast…” He breathed out, the tanned hand twitching.

Pendergast froze.

Vincent hummed a sound of relief as he slipped right back into a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are starting to catch up with my progress. Best get to writing again soon.


	6. Wishful dreaming

Vincent D’Agosta turned away from Pendergast, looking out the window once more. The gentle humming of the motor below him lulled him into a very drowsy state. The last he remembered before falling asleep, was the color of the leaves outside. A bright, vibrant green. He dreamed of laying in a large bed, a plush comforter over him, and the sound of rain against a window. Vincent lay in the bed, feeling a sense that he wasn’t alone. He turned on his side, finding a figure beside him, obscured by the heavy comforter. He saw a head of long black hair splayed out on the pillow. “Lydia?” He reached out a hand to hold his wife only to find her coldly shift away. He retracted his hand, turning over to face away from his wife and outwards, towards the window. Vincent watched the rain plink against the panes of glass, reminding himself of what happened between them. Vincent had never felt more alone before, than when he did now. He sighed, bunching the covers up at his shoulders. It had suddenly gotten colder in the room. He shivered. Then he felt a cool, dry hand against the top of his. It danced around lightly before settling itself. He felt a smile come to his lips. His loneliness became more and more bearable until the presence of his ex-wife dissipated. D’Agosta felt movement behind him, a shifting of the covers as if someone had just gotten into bed with him. There was a new presence he couldn’t quite place. Whoever it was, they smelled faintly familiar to him. He was ready to turn over to see who it was when an arm came over his frame and covered one of his hands with its own. The same cool dry hand. The person buried there head into the crook of Vincent’s neck, shuddering slightly. D’Agosta breathed out softly. Vincent’s own hand curling at the sensation. “Pendergast…".


	7. Comestibles?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, I've been working on other projects and papers for classes.  
> Expect delays, or week long hiatus'

In the night that followed, D’Agosta climbed the stairs to his second story apartment, his keys and paperwork in one hand, and his arm balancing a take-out box of Chinese food. The day had been hectic and strung him out, leaving him even more exhausted after taking a nap in Pendergast’s Rolls Royce. He still couldn’t believe he actually took a nap in front of the man, especially after the agent suggested it. Without realizing, he took his word.

He pushed the thought away, not wanting to remember the dream he had.

He paused at his door and unlocked it. Now with everything being settled down for the day, he would flip through the necessary paperwork that the Lieutenant assigned him and at least try to write a little something for his new book. He hadn’t completely abandoned the idea of giving up his writing career, but after Pendergast mentioned his book twice in one day, it was a tempting resolution. He felt embarrassed that Pendergast even brought it up to the priest and decidedly made an effort, that from now on he would avoid the subject with him at all costs.

As he stumbled through the doorway of his bedroom, feeling refreshed after a shower, he pulled the long sleeve baggy shirt over his head. It seemed to have shrunk in the wash again.

He shrugged and made his way to the kitchen and living area where his couch practically merged with the countertop. The apartment itself was relatively cramped and cluttered to no fault but the building. Any counter space was taken up by paperwork and books. It had decent cable but sometimes the ac would kick out, or the water heater would give up right in the middle of a shower. The landlord was decent, owned a giant mastiff even with the rule of no dogs for the residence. What's that word again? He thought.

_ Hypocrisy. _

He would call the Luientant and update him on what’s been happening. Tell him about the priest, and what Pendergast’s plans were for tomorrow. After that, he would surely settle down to eat.

After leaving a voicemail for Braskie, D’Agosta turned his nose in the direction of the twenty dollar meal he ordered for himself. A small order of sweet and sour chicken, 2 egg rolls and a side of brown rice.  _ Brown rice. Ha.  _ He supposed he had ordered it to make his conscience feel better. The same thing as people who order artificial sweeteners so that they could “balance” out there diet. He scooped out two frosty beers from the fridge and the takeout and settled himself on the couch. He turned on the TV to the news as he ate. As a cop, he always had to be on top of things in the world, even off duty.

After his meal, he let his mind drift for a short time as a documentary came on about Italy and its deeply rooted culture. Maybe, he would go back. He didn’t really enjoy it the last time he went, Lydia being… Well, Lydia. The constant complaining, the cold shoulders if something went wrong, and the long, drowned out arguments they would have.

It was decided. He would treat himself on his next leave. A week in Rome, Venice, maybe even Pompeii. D’Agosta smiled to himself, imagining what it would have been like to go drifting on the canal, watching the clouds and buildings pass as the sun descended.

D’Agosta pushed the thoughts away, rising from his seat and heading over to his desk for the night. He began with an exasperated sigh. Quick paperwork and then onto the book. Filling out page after page of notes, D’Agosta fell into the rhythm. People, locations, times and details of virtually everything that had happened with Pendergast over the last two days was written down and highlighted. Every stone that was overturned, every word that he could remember was written. Well. Not everything.

After another 2 hours of paperwork, D’Agosta got up and stretched. Finally finished. He walked around his apartment for a couple of minutes, regaining blood flow and feeling in his otherwise tingly legs. 

Begrudgingly making his way back to his desk, he knocked a book off the counter. A new book by Thomas Wolfe. He weighed the possibilities. Read the book now, or try to start writing his own. He carried the book back to his desk and sat down. He regarded the small letters on the light blue background. It was strange to see that the title and author were nearly illegible when it came to the front cover. However, when he first opened it up he had found a handwritten note, obviously printed, however, from Wolfe himself. 

“ _ Signed Wolf”  _

If anything, this only made D’Agosta even more confused. Just a name is written in cursive. It wasn’t even a signature. How did this make any sense? The man named the book: “Signed Wolf”

He put the book down and picked up his pen once more. He began writing down ideas, locations that would be interesting, etc. Soon he had the backbone of a case. A made up one, but one nonetheless. Inspired, he began writing faster and faster trying to convert all of his thoughts to paper. That was until it all came to screeching halt. 

_ It’s useless. I’ve got nothing.  _ He had written one of his characters into a corner and could figure out how to get them out. Out of frustration, he crumbled up the paper and swiped it off the desk. He groaned audibly, rubbing his face with his hands. He might as well give up. He had a good run. Got a few books out, got his 15 minutes of fame. That’s all he needed.

Except it wasn’t enough. 

Leaning forward, he opened the new Thomas Wolfe book, flipping through the pages. Page 112, nothing. Page 213, nothing again. He train of thought came back to the title, and he felt compelled to look at it again. “Signed Wolf”

Without the “e”.

What was it that his high school English teacher said?  _ Write from experience? _

He could always write about the FBI agent. He chuckled at the thought. _ A book about a rogue FBI agent who doesn’t play by the rules. Who’d want to read that _ ? Yet, the more D’Agosta thought about it, the more he liked the thought. He picked up his pen once more and wrote out a title.

“L_tt_r by Campbell Dirk”

  
  


Morning came quickly as D’Agosta worked through the night, finding his figure slumped over his desk. Arms crossed, cradling his head, he begrudgingly woke to the sound of the family upstairs yelling at their kids to get ready for school. 

_ Who needs an alarm clock when you’ve got kids right?  _ thought D’Agosta.

Rubbing the knots out of his shoulders and neck, he rose. His body was regretting his decision for staying up so late- or, more honestly; for falling asleep at his desk.

D’Agosta was tempted to call out for the day, to just enjoy a nice day in for himself. Unlikely. He knew that would only happen once in a blue moon. Especially after his pathetic demotion. The boys down at the station were still chattering about it in the break room. He sighed and reluctantly prepared for the day ahead. Another day of Braskie’s bullshit, and another night of liquored loneliness.

  
  


Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast began his morning as usual, routine and on time. After his meeting with Wren the night before, he felt a weight on his shoulders be lifted. Constance Greene, his inherited ward- as neanderthalic as that sounded, was taking another step forward to… To what exactly? Joining society again? After what she went through with her own family and guardian, Pendergast almost felt sorry for the woman. Apart of him wished her mind the stability and cognition to convert, to live as a normal human girl once more. On the other hand, a part of him knew that she would never accept it. Not fully.

He was brought back when he heard said woman clear her throat politely.

“Mr. Pendergast?” She spoke softly, as to get his attention. They had always met up in the morning after breakfast for tea and a reading of the newspaper. He looked up at her, noting the blue dress she was wearing. It suited her pale complexion and mahogany colored hair. He gave a polite nod and opened his mouth to continue the article he was reading.

“With all due respect, I believe I’ve had enough for today. Thank you.” She spoke quickly but just as quietly.

Pendergast gave another obliging nod and folded the paper. He traded the paper for his teacup, a black Irish tea blend with a drip of honey. A delicate sip joined with silence was a must in the early morning for him. The brew warmed his core and drew out a sigh from him.

“Who was it that you were talking about last night with Wren?”

Pendergast paused the cup midway, placing it back in the saucer with a soft tink. “Pardon?”

Constance was silent a moment, gathering her thoughts. “The man. Who you were talking about with Wren. You said he was helping you on the case. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, I just thought it curious that you spoke of someone that I had not heard of before. From you at least.”

Pendergast raised an eyebrow for a moment before recognizing the conversation. “Ah, you must be referring to Sergeant D’Agosta.”

The young woman nodded. “You mentioned him more than once. Forgive my saying so, but what is your relationship with him?”

Pendergast let the weight of the question sink in for a moment. “Professional. Now, while I do forgive you for your inquiring, I must be getting ready to leave. I am to meet with... ” His thoughts trailed off, not wanting to give the young woman  the satisfaction of his flustered appearance. So he remained stone-faced, willing his voice to continue. “I am to meet with the Sergeant at a funeral for Mr. Jeremy Grove.”

“May we talk about this at another time then?” Constance asked, a small smile on her face.

Pendergast gave no response. He rose from his wing chair and set off to the foyer, his strides quickening.

  
  


The Renaissance Salon of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of the museums most remarkable spaces. Taken piece by piece, stone by stone from the ancient Palazzo Date of Florence and reassembled in Manhattan. It recreated, in perfect detail, a late renaissance Salone. It was the most imposing and austere of all the grand galleries in the museum, and for this reason, it was chosen for the memorial service of Jeremy Grove.

D’Agosta felt like an idiot in his cop's uniform. With its South Hampton PD patch in gold and blue, and its lowly Sergeant stripes. Had it been of his own free will, he’d have at least dressed in all black. Out of respect for the dead. People turned toward him quickly, stared as if he was some kind of freak. Then, just as quickly, dismissed him as some hired help, and turned away. As he followed Pendergast into the hall, D’Agosta was surprised to see a long table, groaning with food and another sporting enough bottles of wine and liquor to lay low a herd of rhinos.

_ Some memorial service. More like an Irish wake. _

D’Agosta had been to his fair share of those and was thankful to have made it out alive. The room was crowded, women in sequin and matte black dresses, some with netted veils covering their eyes. Men were in variants of greys and blacks, floating through the sea of tinkling glasses and idle chatter. However, there were no chairs. People were made to mingle, not sit reverentially. D’Agosta made small notes of entrance and exits from where he could see. A large, blank stage was set up, a couple of camera crews preparing to film. However, there was only one small podium sitting onstage and it made D’Agosta question, just how much was for Grove, and how much was for the museum. He had to admire how incredibly quickly this all came together. Grove had only been dead for 48 hours. 

A harpsichord sat in the far corner it’s usual pleasant notes were drowned out by the commotion. If anyone had been shedding tears over Grove, they were hiding it pretty well.

D’Agosta snuck a glance over at his friend, watching as he too scanned the room. The place was crowded, and they had both made the brilliant idea of standing right by the entrance, people shuffling in and out at a constant rate.

Pendergast leaned over, his voice low and right beside D’Agosta’s ear. “Vincent, if you are interested in any comestibles, now is the time to act.”

D’Agosta refrained from turning his head towards the agent. How he so desperately wanted to both flee and stay was almost overwhelming. The sensation of the man’s breath on his ear wasn’t helping. 

“With a crowd like this, they won’t last long” The honeyed voice continued.

He swallowed before speaking.

“Comestibles?” He forced the air out of his lungs. “You mean that food on the table? No thanks.” 

He gave a quick look towards the agent catching his eyes. He averted them just as quickly. 

He had experience with those types of “comestibles” when he was dabbling in the literary world. Or at least, when he was at least somewhat popular to the small demographic. Nothing like Thomas Wolfe. He’d probably be the type like Grove. Surrounded by adoring fans, and fancy glass flutes of champagne.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm absolutely dreadful at spotting mistakes. Please, let me know if I missed a spot?


End file.
